


Of Love and Agony

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, archive warnings: the dark one(s) era, archive warnings: v sad oral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: His tongue was cruel in more ways than one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this was inspired by [this very NSFW sketch](http://bonvivanski.tumblr.com/post/107725724425/fruit) that popped up on my dash, so, give that a peek if you’d like. Second of all, this is DO-era filth, which means it is very angsty. You’ve been warned! Finally, if it helps, there is a mildly “happy” ending, because they’ve suffered enough.

I have lost myself in the sea many times  
with my ear full of freshly cut flowers,  
with my tongue full of love and agony.  
\-- Federico García Lorca

...

He surrenders in an unknowable moment between her thighs; but he won't realize he's lost until it's too late, the strange, salty taste of her an intimate, uncanny premonition of the blood in his mouth.

_“I knew,” she’ll whisper days, weeks, months later, their skin warm and damp in the light of a grey, early dawn, “I knew.”_

There was more than simple lust thrumming along the dark, sticky current of his veins when he returned. The darkness swirling between the two of them was a thick, palpable presence, an unwelcome entity embedding itself amidst the letters and words and spaces of breath between their mutual cruelties. He had wanted to _win_ , as if someone had been playing a dark, twisted game with his life and now that he knew the rules he wouldn’t have to _lose_ anymore.

The house is cold, dark, and silent; it holds its breath in the heavy fact of his presence at the base of the stairs, every potential creak and moan within its walls tensing in anticipation. While it was true that he had chosen this house, with Henry at his side, had envisioned a life with Emma and her son (and maybe a child of their own one day), it only serves as yet another cruel reminder of his many failures.

_“I’m so sorry, Killian,” mumbling into his mouth, against his lips and teeth, “I held on too tight.” And he **knows** , he knows that Emma Swan holds on with all her might, with her teeth, tongue, and talons, until she draws blood, until he lost himself in the violence of her desire._

_“I know, Emma,” he reassures her softly, his arms cradling her against his chest, firm but with enough give that she could slip away if needed, away from **him** , far and away from all of this. He doesn’t know if he should give her less of an opportunity, if he should hold on just as tightly; but he can feel the blunted edge of her fingernails against the flesh of his back and he just **doesn’t know**._

Their bedroom is a dark, empty vacuum apart from a rather large bed and a tall, imposing mirror. She faces away from him, her white, tightly coiled hair falling loose down her bare back.

“Killian,” she murmurs his name softly as she stares wonderingly at her own reflection, a pale, bony hand running down the flat length of her stomach. She searches her own flesh as if she finds herself wanting for a missing piece she can no longer find.

The anger he had felt earlier still hums in various corners of his wretched mind, but the strange new voice inside his head is oddly silent in the midst of such a macabre scene. In the fleeting moments of hope that have yet to be snuffed out, this room is flooded with warm light. A well-worn, circular rug rests atop the wooden floorboards, and their clothes and books and assorted knick-knacks are strewn carelessly about; a lived-in space that offers safety and comfort, a promise for the future. Of many mornings and evenings spent between the two of them.

Her betrayal latches on to the remnants of his vision, and he returns to the darkness, admires the smooth marble of her skin, the strength of her thighs and arms as she continues her inspection.

“Looking for any damage, love? All looks quite well on my end.”

Emma’s body had been one of the very first walls he had managed to carefully deconstruct; the physical aspects of their relationship far easier for her to accept than the wordless, meaningful exchanges of _knowing_ that had been passing between them for as long as they had known each other. Despite his anger, her body remains an object of desire, of devotion, even, regardless of her mistakes — perhaps he should take a lesson from her remarkable selfishness, and repay her in kind.

“It’s strange,” she seems to direct her conversation towards her reflection, but her eyes meet his own as he steps closer, “it feels… different.”

When his hand touches her waist there’s an unfamiliar tremor of revulsion that pulses through them both, as if the darkness has little time for the gentle touch of a lover. _Harder_ , the voice in his head hisses, _harsher. Look at all that delicate flesh, pure and white._

For what other reason might she appear so pale in the moonlight, her skin like marble; the flush of rushing blood all but still in this cursed body?

“Killian,” she says again, only her pronunciation is sharper this time, and there’s a heat that he’s forgotten to feel in the quick, brusqueness of his name. Her hand is just as quick, just as warm, and it’s a strange contrast to the stark look of her in the darkness of this room, in the darkness of his gaze upon her form. _How is she so warm?_

He hasn’t felt this warmth since Camelot, since he felt the final rays of the sun against his cheeks, the beat of his heart slowing within his chest. _It’s all lies_ , the forked tongue of darkness continues along the inside of his throat, _it’s dark magic_.

“You _are_ different,” he mumbles against the taut skin of her throat, the flesh stretched and prickled, “all that darkness consuming such unfettered loveliness.”

_As the sun begins to make its way across the floor, catching on scattered pieces of clothing, he remembers the singular emptiness; the foreign entity that had taken hold of them both, moved through his hands and her lips and corrupted this **sacred thing**. The shades of white and grey that had enveloped her hair and skin are no longer visible, only flushed pink and pale yellows, her lips an irritated red from their time spent pressed against his chin and chest._

_He knows she’s remembering too, the last time they were in this room, disturbingly empty and suffocating all at once, the tightening of his fingers against her waist, his teeth against the tight, anxious vein of her throat._

When his hand travels over her hip and against her thigh he hears a ragged “Please,” in a foreign, nervous tone, and it’s hard to know whether it’s the darkness that speaks or Emma, begging to be let out.

“Please, what?” He _has_ to ask, Killian Jones and the darkness both, _Please, what,_ what do you need and how might he provide for and deny her all at once; how does he hold all the cards and _win the game_?

She responds with a firm grip on his wrist, a rough tugging of his hand, pulling him towards where she needs him most, and although the sudden warmth of her makes his flesh crawl, the hope and the _light_ rears its ugly head and for one moment he remembers, slick, inviting, and lovely. She traps his hand against the apex of her thighs, as if forcing a memory, and he has to free himself from her grasp before she gains an unwelcome advantage.

“I don’t think so, darling.” He frees his hand from her iron grip, moves his arm around her waist and tugs her against his front, the long, hard, length of him acting in defiance of the waif-like, eerie movements of her body in front of the mirror.

“And what will you do with me, Captain?” 

And this time, _Emma_ is lost in the dark cadence of her words, the glint of excitement shining in her eyes, and he feels the tide turn in his favor.

“Nothing that you don’t already deserve, I assure you.”

…

He remembers this. He doesn’t want to remember this, but the feeling of her thighs pressed against his cheeks is too vivid to ignore. Her sighs he remembers, the taste of her he remembers; the feel of her hands tugging at the roots of his hair — he doesn’t _want_ to remember.

_His hair is too long. She hadn’t been paying too much attention before, but with the feel of it tickling the soft skin of her knees, playing along the underside of her jaw, she notices the unusual length and takes a moment to enjoy the smile she can feel in her cheeks._

_“Please kiss me,” her request soft and polite, and he takes the delightful blush in her face and neck to mean a kiss of a different kind. Gentle yet probing, the kiss he places against her tender flesh acts as the kind of sensual reassurance she’d been missing since before Camelot. He praises her beauty, body and soul; his lips and tongue conveying a silent apology he has struggled to make._

When she comes, it will be on his terms. She can pull at his hair all she wants, curse his name all she wants, but he _will_ be winning this particular match. Her hips move restlessly between his hand and hook and he _knows_ she’s close ( _remembers_ ), only it hasn’t been _quite_ long enough and he thinks she could stand to wait just a bit longer.

“You can hold on just a moment longer, can’t you?”

His words are playful, yet vicious, and he can hear the enticing note of pain in the unintelligible words that tumble from her lips, but she can wait. Just a bit longer.

_The pressure that began in between her legs has traveled upwards towards the tense muscles of her belly and she can barely contain the laughter that’s bubbling up, uncontrolled and wild. There’s another kind of pressure building behind her eyes, but she endeavors to ignore it in favor of the pleased hum of his voice against her clit._

_“No more,” she laughs, breathless, “I can’t—”_

_He lifts his head, and she can see the light sheen of sweat against his forehead, the dampness in his hair, “Just once more, Swan,” he laughs, delighted, and she feels the tears recede._

She comes by accident, and there’s a scolding voice in his head that he can’t shut out. _You’ve lost_ , she teases him cruelly, _**again**_.

_I’ve lost nothing_ , he thinks angrily, his pride wounded, _they will **all fall**_.

When he sneaks a glance upwards he feels momentarily relieved at how tense she seems beneath his gaze; the pleasure he provided doing nothing to assuage her guilt. The sudden green of her eyes takes him by surprise, and though he pays her little mind, it’s difficult to neglect the sadness that seems to follow his every move about the empty room.

“I’ll see you and your _charming_ family by the lake, Swan. Don’t be late.”

…

Their bedroom is unrecognizable when he wakes to the light of the afternoon sun. If he allows himself to consider the world in its darker guise, he can picture the pale, naked length of her in front of that bloody mirror. Can hear his cruel, twisted voice in his head, taunting her, _hurting_ her.

Between the blankets, Emma, and the warmth of the sun, he feels almost too hot in the shelter of their bed, but he can remember the iciness of her gaze, the tense set of her shoulders from his place below her waist, and he suddenly _relishes_ the suffocating heat of their embrace.

“Hey,” she smiles softly, her fingers following the elegant length of his spine, “you okay?”

“Of course, love,” lifting her hand to his lips, a decidedly gentleman-like gesture in light of the rather _ungentlemanly_ behavior in which they had just indulged, “just admiring the view.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow my writing blog [(@hencethebravery)](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!


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